The Complete Malazan Book of the Fallen

by Steven Erikson

  A hiss, a susurration of voices through rotting throats. ‘Lead us, Warleader…’

  He shrieked.

  ‘Lead us, Warleader.’

  Climbing closer, arms reaching up, nails clawing the air—

  A hand closed about his ankle.

  Karsa’s head snapped back, struck wood with a resounding crunch. He gulped air that slid like sand down his throat, choking him. Eyes opening, he saw before him the gently pitching decks of the ship, figures standing motionless, staring at him.

  He coughed behind his gag, each convulsion a rage of fire in his lungs. His throat felt torn, and he realized that he had been screaming. Enough to spasm his muscles so they now clenched tight, cutting off the flow of his air passages.

  He was dying.

  The whisper of a voice deep in his mind: Perhaps we will not abandon you, yet. Breathe, Karsa Orlong. Unless, of course, you wish to once more meet your dead.

  Breathe.

  Someone snatched the gag from his mouth. Cold air flooded his lungs.

  Through watering eyes, Karsa stared down at Torvald Nom. The Daru was barely recognizable, so dark was his skin, so thick and matted his beard. He had used the very chains holding Karsa to climb up within reach of the gag, and was now shouting unintelligible words the Teblor barely heard—words flung back at the frozen, fear-stricken Malazans.

  Karsa’s eyes finally made note of the sky beyond the ship’s prow. There were colours there, amidst churning clouds, flashing and blossoming, swirls bleeding out from what seemed huge, open wounds. The storm—if that was what it was—commanded the entire sky ahead. And then he saw the chains, snapping down through the clouds to crack thunderously on the horizon. Hundreds of chains, impossibly huge, black, whipping in the air with explosions of red dust, crisscrossing the sky. Horror filled his soul.

  There was no wind. The sails hung limp. The ship lolled on lazy, turgid seas. And the storm was coming.

  A sailor approached with a tin cup filled with water, lifted it up to Torvald, who took it and brought it to Karsa’s scabbed, crusted lips. The brackish liquid entered his mouth, burning like acid. He drew his head away from the cup.

  Torvald was speaking in low tones, words that slowly grew comprehensible to Karsa. ‘…long lost to us. Only your beating heart and the rise and fall of your chest told us you still lived. It has been weeks and weeks, my friend. You’d keep hardly anything down. There’s almost nothing left of you—you’re showing bones where no bones should be.

  ‘And then this damned becalming. Day after day. Not a cloud in the sky…until three bells past. Three bells, when you stirred, Karsa Orlong. When you tilted your head back and began screaming behind your gag. Here, more water—you must drink.

  ‘Karsa, they’re saying you’ve called this storm. Do you understand? They want you to send it away—they’ll do anything, they’ll unchain you, set you free. Anything, friend, anything at all—just send this unholy storm away. Do you understand?’

  Ahead, he could see now, the seas were exploding with each lash of the black, monstrous chains, twisting spouts of water skyward as each chain retreated upward once more. The billowing, heaving clouds seemed to lean forward over the ocean, closing on their position from all sides now.

  Karsa saw the Malazan captain descend from the foredeck, the blue-tinged skin on his face a sickly greyish hue. ‘This is no Mael-blessed squall, Daru, meaning it don’t belong.’ He jerked a trembling finger at Karsa. ‘Tell him he’s running out of time. Tell him to send it away. Once he does that, we can negotiate. Tell him, damn you!’

  ‘I have been, Captain!’ Torvald retorted. ‘But how in Hood’s name do you expect him to send anything away when I’m not even sure he knows where he is? Worse, we don’t even know for sure if he’s responsible!’

  ‘Let’s see, shall we?’ The captain spun round, gestured. A score of crewmen rushed forward, axes in hand.

  Torvald was dragged down and thrown to the deck.

  The axes chopped through the heavy ropes binding the platform to the mast. More crew came forward then. A ramp was laid out, angled up to the starboard gunnel. Log rollers were positioned beneath the platform as it was roughly lowered.

  ‘Wait!’ Torvald cried out. ‘You can’t—’

  ‘We can,’ the captain growled.

  ‘At least unchain him!’

  ‘Not a chance, Torvald.’ The captain grabbed a passing sailor by the arm. ‘Find everything this giant owned—all that stuff confiscated from the slavemaster. It’s all going with him. Hurry, damn you!’

  Chains ripped the seas on all sides close enough to lift spray over the ship, each detonation causing hull, masts and rigging to tremble.

  Karsa stared up at the tumbling stormclouds as the platform was dragged along the rollers, up the ramp.

  ‘Those chains will sink it!’ Torvald said.

  ‘Maybe, maybe not.’

  ‘What if it lands wrong way up?’

  ‘Then he drowns, and Mael can have him.’

  ‘Karsa! Damn you! Cease playing your game of mindlessness! Say something!’

  The warrior croaked out two words, but the noise that came from his lips was unintelligible even to him.

  ‘What did he say?’ the captain demanded.

  ‘I don’t know!’ Torvald screamed. ‘Karsa, damn you, try again!’

  He did, yielding the same guttural noise. He began repeating the same two words, over and over again, as the sailors pushed and pulled the platform up onto the gunnel until it was balanced precariously, half over the deck, half over the sea.

  Directly above them, as he uttered his two words once more, Karsa watched the last patch of clear sky vanish, like the closing of a tunnel mouth. A sudden plunge into darkness, and Karsa knew it was too late, even as, in the sudden terror-stricken silence, his words came out clear and audible.

  ‘Go away.’

  From overhead, chains snapped down, massive, plunging, reaching directly for—it seemed—Karsa’s own chest.

  A blinding flash, a detonation, the splintering crackle of masts toppling, spars and rigging crashing down. The entire ship was falling away beneath Karsa, beneath the platform itself, which slid wildly down the length of the gunnel before crunching against the foredeck railing, pivoting, then plunging for the waves below.

  He stared down at the water’s sickly green, heaving surface.

  The entire platform shuddered in its fall as the cargo ship’s hull rolled up and struck its edge.

  Karsa caught an upside-down glimpse of the ship—its deck torn open by the impact of the huge chains, its three masts gone, the twisted forms of sailors visible in the wreckage—then he was staring up at the sky, at a virulent, massive wound directly overhead.

  A fierce impact, then darkness.

  His eyes opened to a faint gloom, the desultory lap of waves, the sodden boards beneath him creaking as the platform rocked to someone else’s movement. Thumps; low, gasping mutters.

  The Teblor groaned. The joints of every limb felt torn inside.

  ‘Karsa?’ Torvald Nom crawled into view.

  ‘What—what has happened?’

  The shackles remained on the Daru’s wrists, the chains connected on the other end to arm-length, roughly broken fragments of the deck. ‘Easy for you, sleeping through all the hard work,’ he grumbled as he moved into a sitting position, pulling his arms around his knees. ‘This sea’s a lot colder than you’d think, and these chains didn’t help. I’ve nearly drowned a dozen times, but you’ll be glad to know we now have three water casks and a bundle of something that might be food—I’ve yet to untie its bindings. Oh, and your sword and armour, both of which float, of course.’

  The sky overhead looked unnatural, luminous grey shot through with streaks of darker pewter, and the water smelled of clay and silts. ‘Where are we?’

  ‘I was hoping you’d know. It’s pretty damned clear to me that you called that storm down on us. That’s the only explanation for what happened—’
r />   ‘I called nothing.’

  ‘Those chains of lightning, Karsa—not one missed its target. Not a single Malazan was left standing. The ship was falling apart—your platform had landed right-side up and was drifting away. I was still working free when Silgar and three of his men climbed out of the hold, dragging their chains with them—the hull was riven through, coming apart all around the bastards. Only one had drowned.’

  ‘I am surprised they didn’t kill us.’

  ‘You were out of reach, at least to start with. Me, they threw overboard. A short while later, after I’d made it to this platform, I saw them in the lone surviving dory. They were rounding the sinking wreck, and I knew they were coming for us. Then, somewhere on the other side of the ship, beyond my sight, something must have happened, because they never reappeared. They vanished, dory and all. The ship then went down, though a lot of stuff has been coming back up. So, I’ve been resupplying. Collecting rope and wood, too—everything I could drag over here. Karsa, your platform is slowly sinking. None of the water casks are full, so that’s added some buoyancy, and I’ll be slipping more planks and boards under it, which should help. Even so…’

  ‘Break my chains, Torvald Nom.’

  The Daru nodded, then ran a hand through his dripping, tangled hair. ‘I’ve checked on that, friend. It will take some work.’

  ‘Is there land about?’

  Torvald glanced over at the Teblor. ‘Karsa, this isn’t the Meningalle Ocean. We’re somewhere else. Is there land nearby? None in sight. I overheard Silgar talking about a warren, which is one of those paths a sorcerer uses. He said he thought we’d all entered one. There may be no land here. None at all. Hood knows there’s no wind and we don’t seem to be moving in any direction—the wreckage of the ship is still all around us. In fact, it almost pulled us under with it. Also, this sea is fresh water—no, I wouldn’t want to drink it. It’s full of silt. No fish. No birds. No signs of life anywhere.’

  ‘I need water. Food.’

  Torvald crawled over to the wrapped bundle he had retrieved. ‘Water, we have. Food? No guarantees. Karsa, did you call upon your gods or something?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What started you screaming like that, then?’

  ‘A dream.’

  ‘A dream?’

  ‘Yes. Is there food?’

  ‘Uh, I’m not sure, it’s mostly padding…around a small wooden box.’

  Karsa listened to ripping sounds as Torvald pulled away the padding. ‘There’s a mark branded on it. Looks…Moranth, I think.’ The lid was pried free. ‘More padding, and a dozen clay balls…with wax plugs on them—oh, Beru fend—’ The Daru backed away from the package. ‘Hood’s dripping tongue. I think I know what these are. Never seen one, but I’ve heard about them—who hasn’t? Well…’ He laughed suddenly. ‘If Silgar reappears and comes after us, he’s in for a surprise. So’s anyone else who might mean trouble.’ He edged forward again and carefully replaced the padding, then the lid.

  ‘What have you found?’

  ‘Alchemical munitions. Weapons of war. You throw them, preferably as far as you can. The clay breaks and the chemicals within explode. What you don’t want to happen is have one break in your hand, or at your feet. Because then you’re dead. The Malazans have been using these in the Genabackan campaign.’

  ‘Water, please.’

  ‘Right. There’s a ladle here…somewhere…found it.’

  A moment later Torvald hovered over Karsa, and the Teblor drank, slowly, all the water the ladle contained.

  ‘Better?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘More?’

  ‘Not yet. Free me.’

  ‘I need to get back into the water first, Karsa. I need to push some planks under this raft.’

  ‘Very well.’

  There seemed to be no day and no night in this strange place; the sky shifted hue occasionally, as if jostled by high, remote winds, the streaks of pewter twisting and stretching, but there was no change otherwise. The air surrounding the raft remained motionless, damp and cool and strangely thick.

  The flanges anchoring Karsa’s chains were on the underside, holding him in place in a fashion identical to that in the slave trench at Silver Lake. The shackles themselves had been welded shut. Torvald’s only recourse was to attempt to widen the holes in the planks where the chains went through, using an iron buckle to dig at the wood.

  Months of imprisonment had left him weakened, forcing frequent rests, and the buckle made a bloody mess of his hands, but once begun the Daru would not relent. Karsa measured the passing of time by the rhythmic crunching and scraping sounds, noting how each pause to rest stretched longer, until Torvald’s breathing told him the Daru had fallen into an exhausted sleep. Then, the Teblor’s only company was the sullen lap of water as it slipped back and forth across the platform.

  For all the wood positioned beneath it, the raft was still sinking, and Karsa knew that Torvald would not be able to free him in time.

  He had never before feared death. But now, he knew that Urugal and the other Faces in the Rock would abandon his soul, would leave it to the hungry vengeance of those thousands of ghastly corpses. He knew his dream had revealed to him a fate that was real, and inevitable. And inexplicable. Who had set such horrid creatures upon him? Undead Teblor, undead lowlander, warrior and child, an army of corpses, all chained to him. Why?

  Lead us, Warleader.

  Where?

  And now, he would drown. Here, in this unknown place, far from his village. His claims to glory, his vows, all now mocking him, whispering a chorus of muted creaks, soft groans…

  ‘Torvald.’

  ‘Uh…what? What is it?’

  ‘I hear new sounds—’

  The Daru sat up, blinking crusted silt from his eyes. He looked around. ‘Beru fend!’

  ‘What do you see?’

  The Daru’s gaze was fixed on something beyond Karsa’s head. ‘Well, it seems there’s currents here after all, though which of us has done the moving? Ships, Karsa. A score or more of them, all dead in the water, like us. Floating wrecks. No movement on them…that I can see as yet. Looks like there was a battle. With plenty of sorcery being flung back and forth…’

  Some indiscernible shift drew the ghostly flotilla into Karsa’s view, an image on its side to his right. There were two distinct styles of craft. Twenty or so were low and sleek, the wood stained mostly black, though where impacts and collisions and other damage had occurred the cedar’s natural red showed like gaping wounds. Many of these ships sat low in the water, a few with their decks awash. They were single-masted, square-sailed, the torn and shredded sails also black, shimmering in the pellucid light. The remaining six ships were larger, high-decked and three-masted. They had been fashioned from a wood that was true black—not stained—as was evinced from the gashes and splintered planks marring the broad, bellied hulls. Not one of these latter ships sat level in the water; all leaned one way or the other, two of them at very steep angles.

  ‘We should board a few,’ Torvald said. ‘There will be tools, maybe even weapons. I could swim over—there, that raider. It’s not yet awash, and I see lots of wreckage.’

  Karsa sensed the Daru’s hesitation. ‘What is wrong? Swim.’

  ‘Uh, I am a little concerned, friend. I seem to have not much strength left, and these chains on me…’

  The Teblor said nothing for a moment, then he grunted. ‘So be it. No more can be asked of you, Torvald Nom.’

  The Daru slowly turned to regard Karsa. ‘Compassion, Karsa Orlong? Is it helplessness that has brought you to this?’

  ‘Too many empty words from you, lowlander,’ the Teblor sighed. ‘There are no gifts that come from being—’

  A soft splash sounded, then sputtering and thrashing—the sputtering turning into laughter. Torvald, now alongside the raft, moved into Karsa’s line of sight. ‘Now we know why those ships are canted so!’ And the Teblor saw that Torvald was standing, the water lapping
around his upper chest. ‘I can drag us over, now. This also tells us we’re the ones who’ve been drifting. And there’s something else.’

  ‘What?’

  The Daru had begun pulling the raft along, using Karsa’s chains. ‘These ships all grounded during the battle—I think a lot of the hand to hand fighting was actually between ships, chest-deep in water.’

  ‘How do you know this?’

  ‘Because there’s bodies all around me, Karsa Orlong. Against my shins, rolling about on the sands—it’s an unpleasant feeling, let me tell you.’

  ‘Pull one up. Let us see these combatants.’

  ‘All in good time, Teblor. We’re almost there. Also, these bodies, they’re, uh, rather soft. We might find something more recognizable if there’s any on the ship itself. Here’—there was a bump—‘we’re alongside. A moment, while I climb aboard.’

  Karsa listened to the Daru’s grunts and gasps, the slipping scrabble of his bare feet, the rustle of chains, finally followed by a muted thud.

  Then silence.

  ‘Torvald Nom?’

  Nothing.

  The raft’s end beyond Karsa’s head bumped alongside the raider’s hull, then began drifting along it. Cool water flowed across the surface, and Karsa recoiled at the contact, but could do nothing as it seeped beneath him. ‘Torvald Nom!’

  His voice strangely echoed.

  No reply.

  Laughter rumbled from Karsa, a sound oddly disconnected from the Teblor’s own will. In water that, had he been able to stand, would likely rise no higher than his hips, he would drown. Assuming there would be time for that. Perhaps Torvald Nom had been slain—it would be a bizarre battle if there had been no survivors—and even now, beyond his sight, the Teblor was being looked down upon, his fate hanging in the balance.

  The raft edged near the ship’s prow.

  A scuffling sound, then, ‘Where? Oh.’

  ‘Torvald Nom?’

  Footsteps, half-stumbling, moved alongside from the ship’s deck. ‘Sorry, friend. I think I must have passed out. Were you laughing a moment ago?’

  ‘I was. What have you found?’

  ‘Not much. Yet. Bloodstains—dried. Trails through it. This ship has been thoroughly stripped. Hood below—you’re sinking!’